


The sword of destiny has two edges, you are one of them

by Quyinn



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, Endgame Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, F/M, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Good With Children, Good Parent Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Idiots in Love, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion has D&D style magic, M/M, Minor Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Non-Explicit Sex, Non-Graphic Violence, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:27:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24846034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quyinn/pseuds/Quyinn
Summary: A Witcher's chance of a soulmate is sliced away alongside their humanity. There's no room for mistakes, clouded judgement or distraction.The emptiness, the hollowness, the lack of 'something' was part of the job, part of the life.There wasn't anything that can change thatorJust another soulmate au, we all know how it ends, let's see how we get there
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, temporary Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 38
Kudos: 370





	1. this world doesn't need a hero, it needs a professional

**Author's Note:**

> Rated Mature for blood, language and non- explicit sex 
> 
> i suck at summaries so thank u for havin a look

Geralt strokes a hand through Roach’s mane, attaching the neatly severed Cockatrice head to her saddle. He rests his forehead against her neck, breathing heavily. He bends at the knee, feeling them buckle as he waits for the toxins to neutralise in his blood.

He smells of blood and poison and there’s vomit mixed into the mess on his armour, the taste of bile still in his mouth from where he hurled up the potions. 

Geralt barely manages to pull himself up on Roach from where he was sagging low against her flank. He eases her into a careful walk, not wanting to jolst too much while the remnants of Swallow works its healing magic.

Roach nickers quietly as he groans, an arm wrapped around his stomach. He can practically feel the skin start to stitch itself together under his palm. The blood makes his gloves sticky. 

He loses himself in the slow, easy sway of the chestnut mare’s walk. The Witcher listens as they travel through thickets and trees, Roach’s hooves clopping solidly as she comes to walk on a dusty main road.

He grunts sharply as Roach comes to a stop, weakly kicking his heel without opening his eyes. 

“Come on, Roachie. Not now.” He clenches his jaw, feeling how the clawed gouges down his chest stretch with every laboured breath. He nudges her again, head rolling over her neck before pushing himself into sitting. 

In the middle of the path, sat cross legged is a child. Geralt sucks in a breath, watching the boy babble, a stick in his hand, drawing in the dirt. He squeals when he notices Roach, waving the stick at her, babbling. 

The Witcher glances down the dirt track, seeing the outer houses of Lettenhove just over the hill. He clenches his jaw, slipping off Roach with a sharp groan. He takes small, soft steps towards the boy, knowing how he looks. 

Black eyes, blood soaking his torso, dark stains on his breeches and two swords strapped to his back, a severed head in an almost leaking bag hanging from his mare.

“Hey, little one. What’s got you out here?” He crouches low. The boy makes a delighted noise, scrambling to crawl over to Geralt on narrow, twiggy knees.

His clothes are rich reds and deep browns but are dusty at the elbows, stained on his knees and sleeves. The boy points a skinny finger at him, making a _“Woff”_ sort of noise. Humming, Geralt picks his medallion up off his chest and leans a little lower.

“You know what this is? It’s a wolf, means I’m a Witcher.” The boy pokes over the metal, his skin pale against the silver. He found himself saying, almost bitterly, “Witcher’s protect people.”

The boy, obviously, innocently, oblivious, holds his blackened gaze with bright blue eyes. His lips pucker and he starts blowing, bubbles of spit forming. He makes a small whining noise, until Geralt quirks an eyebrow at him. 

“Well, we’re almost at the town. I suppose you haven’t wandered too far, have you?” Geralt asks, holding his hand out when the boy’s extended hand balls up into a little fist.

“Bu-bluh-” The boy sticks his tongue out as he gets his feet under him, the stick discarded to hold onto Geralt’s thumb with one hand, the other wrapped around his ring and middle finger. 

“Yeah, I know. Dried blood isn’t the nicest thing but what can you do, huh?” Geralt ignores the snicker Roach makes and pushes slowly off his knees to stand. The jagged cuts have healed well, just a sharp pull when he breathes rather than a gaping wound. 

“Hossa!” The boy squeals. Geralt hums, picking the boy up carefully by the skinny waist. The boy squirms as Geralt settles him in the saddle. 

“Hey, stop that. You’ll fall off.” Geralt frowns, letting the boy keep hold of his hand as he takes Roach’s reins in his free hand and walks her into Lettenhove. 

The boy talks all the way there. 

Talking, Geralt thinks, is certainly a way to describe the sounds strung together haphazardly. The high pitched “ _da-da-dum-da_ ”s can only be tolerated for so long before the repetition grates on Geralt’s ears. 

“Settle down, we’re here.” Geralt tries to placate the child by wriggling his bloodied fingers, curling and tapping them over the little hands but that just makes the boy’s laughter ring out like wind chimes. 

“Here to see the Duke.” Geralt gruffly informs one of the guards as he unties the trophy from Roach’s side. The child claps his hands in delight when Geralt reaches for him, his little arms and legs wrapping around his arm. 

Geralt sighs, with a small shake of his head and keeps his arm stretched out, the boy’s ankles crossed over his bicep, his blunt nail digging into Geralt’s wrist as he clings. 

“You work fast, Master Witcher.” The guard praises, voice like gravel under his leather helmet. 

“Hmm.” Geralt frowns.

The other guards don’t seem to pay him any mind as he walks up the stairs to the manor. He lets his arm hang down at his side, the child making little gasps or sharp bouts of giggles when Geralt's arm dips and sways. He kicks the door carefully instead of knocking.

The rope ties of the bag are barely looped around his hand, he didn’t want to risk dropping it. He lowers his other arm, the boy giggles as the blood rushes to his head. 

“C’mere.” Geralt grunts, juggling the bag and the boy to reposition him sat on Geralt’s hip. 

Another guard leads him through to the study, weaving through wide hallways as they did three days ago when Geralt first picked up the contract. 

The boy seems to take their slow pace as an invitation to squeeze under Geralt’s arm and lock his arms around his neck. Geralt huffs, but lets him climb more comfortably on his back.

The Duke is sitting in the same chair as before, one elbow propped on the desk, head in his hand. There are dark circles under his eyes, wrinkled skin pulled taut as he frowns.

“Come for my coin.” Geralt says in way of greeting, holding the bag up. The bottom of the sack was soaked in blood, threatening to drip. 

The Duke didn’t open his eyes, just raised his hand and the guard beside him took the bag from Geralt, in exchange for a small heavy pouch. 

The child is strangely silent, knees digging tight against Geralt’s sides, arms wound around his neck. 

“I also found a boy at the edge of town.” Geralt said mildly. The Duke’s eyes opened, his lip curling. “Know who’s he is?”

“My son.” The Duke pinches the bridge of his nose. “I had my men put out words that he had ran away from his nurse earlier this afternoon.”

“You didn’t search for him yourself?” Geralt raises an eyebrow. 

“It’s none of your concern what I do in my city.” The Duke snaps. Geralt catches himself from blinking in surprise at the sudden defensiveness. 

“Of course. I’m just curious to know what stops a father from searching for his son, when there was a great beast lurking outside your city walls.” Geralt holds the eye contact as the Duke gets to his feet. 

Geralt can smell ale and despair rolling off the Duke, his face turning a ruddy shade of anger. 

“Curiosity won’t do you any good. An extra 70 crowns and you put the boy down and leave with no further comments.” The Duke has his meaty fists curled on the edges of his desk.

“100.” Geralt eases the boy off his back, letting him clutch his hand between his two little ones. 

“100 then. Witcher’s don’t steal children, they sell them.” The Duke laughs the last part to the guard at his side. Geralt swallows a growl, the guard’s face forming a frown in his peripheral vision. 

“My lord, he found your son and protected the people of the city from a monster-”

“Witcher’s are heartless bastards!” The Duke declares over the guard, who visibly shrinks into his chestpiece. “See him out and the boy to the nurse. Now!” The Duke tosses another coin-heavy pouch at Geralt. He lurches forward, one fist blindly launching in Geralt’s direction but the young guard catches his arm, guiding him back to slump in his seat. 

Geralt inclines his head and leaves. The guard hustles out behind him. 

“Please, forgive my lord for his insults. He isn’t in sane mind.” The guards face is young and honest and Geralt can’t help but sigh. 

“Are lords ever? Why men throw their lives away attacking an armed Witcher…” Geralt shakes his head with a huff, “I’ll never know. Something wrong with my face?” The guard’s face flushes and copies Geralt, shaking his head, tripping over his “ _No, no, of course not.”_

Geralt offers his hand, the boy attached. “Take him, and I’ll be on my way.” The guard reaches for the boy with a small smile.

“Come along, Master Julian.” His voice is gentle and he dips to meet the child’s eyes. 

He quickly backs off when the boy starts crying. 

Maybe crying isn’t the right word, Geralt thinks. The grip on his hand tightens and the child begins to _wail,_ tears springing down his cheeks and his lip trembling. 

“Hey,” Geralt drops to one knee, the boy’s arms immediately winding around his neck. “None of that, hmm?” Geralt cups the back of his skull, rubbing the crown of his head with his thumb. He grimaces up at the guard, who’s hands are still held out, mouth twisting in helplessness. 

“Lead the way, good Sir.” Geralt scoops the boy off his feet and follows the guard down the corridor. 

“Yes, Master Witcher.” The guard sighs in relief. “Just a little way, Lady Rose is waiting with a bath drawn.” 

“D’you think she’ll draw one for me, too?” Geralt quirks an eyebrow. The guard laughs, tension broken easily. 

“Nay, the Lady is quite particular about menfolk. The only one she’ll see to is the little Lord you have there. Julian Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove.” The guard pulls a face, holding a door open for Geralt to duck through. 

“My Lord swears he will one day have Master Julian on the council. The boy is nought four summers old and he is already being shoehorned into a-”

“Sargent, I think you've indulged in enough gossip today.” A soft voice says from the corner of the room. 

“Forgive me, my Lady.” The guard bows, shooting Geralt a fleeting smile. 

“You may go.” The woman has a fair face, her hair gathered away from her face with a braid. She is seated next to a wooden tub of water. 

“Julian, come here.” She holds out a gentle hand. Geralt sets the boy on his feet, mouthing _“go”_. 

The boy pouts, his blue eyes bright with tears. He keeps a hold of Geralt's hand and waddles to the woman, his other hand extended. 

“A taste for adventure, and not one of self preservation, don’t you?” The nursemaid coos, glancing to meet Geralt’s eyes. “Aren’t you lucky you ran into Master Witcher?” 

The boy nods his head, as if he has any idea of what she’s saying. He babbles a little as she unties his boot laces, Geralt bending at his knees to take the boy’s weight as he kicks his feet a little.

Geralt huffs as the boy squeals when his muddy shirt is stripped off him, his little hands fisting in the sleeves, initiating some game the lady and the boy have.

“Now, Master Julian. That is not proper behaviour.” Lady Rose mock scorns, tugging the shirt. The boy babbles back at her, feet drumming on the floor as he stomps. 

Geralt finds it hard not to be amused. 

On the inside of the kid’s skinny arm is a black smudge. The words are tightly bunched together, letters blurring into one another. Geralt clenches his jaw, tapping down on the faint burn of jealousy that a child, an entitled, demanding child, that will one day grow into an entitled, power hungry fool like his father, has been destined for a soulmate, _has_ a soulmate. 

Geralt swallows a grunt as the boy scrambles out of his grip and into the bathtub, hands still tightly fisted in his shirt, splashing in the water.

“Hosa! Hossssa.” The boy grins triumphantly, holding up a soaking cloth horse. Its eyes are uneven buttons and one leg looks as if it's chewed regularly.

“I see.” Geralt nods his head seriously, shifting his weight in the crouch. “Be good, little one. Don’t make cause for us to meet again.” Geralt exchanges a farewell look with the nursemaid before getting to his feet and leaving. 

The young guard is standing outside the door still, he walks Geralt out of the manor and thanks him for the completion of the contracts. 

“It’s the job.” Geralt rolls his shoulders in a shrug. The guard shuffles his feet, heavy boots scraping against the stone floor. 

“Do you have a place to stay?” The guard smiles, almost nervously with his slightly crooked teeth. 

“The Fourth Leaf.” Geralt hums, slowly looking him up and down. 

“I finish my shift in a few hours.” The guard smells like clouds, like the promise of rain, something not quite innocent.

“I’ll be gone by then.” Geralt narrows his eyes at the hopeful look in the guards eye as he fiddles with the end of his undershirt that poked out under his chest-piece. “This place got any dark corners?” 

The next half an hour finds Geralt pressing the guard bodily under a stairwell, soft, sword-calloused fingers digging into Geralt’s undercut. He rubs his beard down the guard’s neck, rubs his hands over his ass, the guard bucking into him with brown eyes blown almost black with the thrill.

Geralt growls things like _“come on_ ” and _“bite me like you mean it_ ” and spit in his palm. He murmurs things like _“just like that_ ” and _“doing so well sarge_ ” and the body shakes between him and the wall, muffling the cry he makes when he finally spills. 

He holds the guard up with strong, unshaking arms as cum cools on his armour, a mess between themselves. Geralt soaks up the heat between them, tongue soothing over the bite he left on his pulse point. He waits, like a gentleman, until the guard can support himself on slightly shaking legs. 

He leaves, smirking with sharp teeth as the guard raises a hand to wave goodbye before poking a mark behind his ear where his soulmark laid, Geralt had knocked the helmet off his blond head and nipped just before the first letter of a curling greyed “ _My hero._ ”

He goes back to his room, paying for food and a basin of water and spends the evening cleaning his armour free from various fluids, repairing the hole in the leather and the hole in his side. He scrubs the dried blood from his chest and arms, grimacing where it’s caked under his arms.

The greyish smear over his skin is barely noticed as he slides the cloth over the scar that breaks over it. 

He remembers the scrunched line of black text on the future viscount’s forearm and can barely breathe. 

He remembers the stretch of _"hero_ " and spits into the basin, a bitter taste of false hope left in his mouth.

He remembers the sharp drag of a dagger, crossing out the words on his own chest, the red rimmed eyes of his mentor and the closest thing to a father he would ever have. The way Vesemir pressed a cloth to staunch the bleeding as he laid a heavy hand to the top of Geralt’s head.

They were told the same thing every time one of them dared ask. 

_“Human soulmates are just another distraction. Save yourselves the grief.”_

Geralt drops the cloth back into the basin and collapses on the bed, tucking himself as best he can around a pillow. He barely manages to pull the sheet over his legs before his eyes are closing and his face is pressed into the almost scratchy pillow case.

He dreams his forehead is squished in the crook of his brother's neck, the scent of sandalwood stroking down his back, the words _“We’re in this together”_ stretched across Eskel’s collarbone. The words _“Don’t be afraid”_ branded into Geralt’s chest.

Hell, Geralt can’t remember what Lambert spat at him, but he’d rather have the venom on his skin than the crisscross of thick raised scars. 

It isn’t in a Witcher’s nature to be longing, to be wanted, to find their souls other half and finally be complete.

Witchers are needed, but by no means wanted. They are rarely welcomed into settlements. They are ruthless, trained, mutated monsters. 

What would their soulmates even see in them anyway? 

A Witcher can’t give them children. A Witcher can’t give them love. They’re simply not capable of emotion. A Witcher’s life is a contract, the reward is living. 

Arguably, the reward for serving mankind, slaying monsters, is not dying. Because what kind of life does a Witcher lead anyway?

_“Save yourself the grief.”_ Vesemir had said. The grief of rejection. A human life is but a blip in a Witchers. The grief of loss. Of a life a Witcher doesn’t have time for let alone a life a Witcher deserves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kay i swear i'm gona try wait to publish all the chapters, but i suck at patience so we'll see ;)) 
> 
> ive based geralt in this chap off game geralt, and he's a bit of a slut soooo ;)))
> 
> thank you for reading, let me know if i missed any tags/warning or my rating is wrong
> 
> I'll update idk every three days? four days? whats a good number i dont know oop--


	2. Destiny is rarely so lazy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rated Mature for blood, language and non- explicit sex

He finds himself in a tavern, somewhere in Posada. 

It smells of fermented yeast and sweat. The bread is stale. The patrons have muck up to their shins and holes in their clothing. The travelling bard sticks out a little, dressed in a blue doublet that would have definitely got him snatched up by the pack of Nekkers that were loitering on the outside of town. 

Geralt nurses his tankard. He can make the reward from the Nekkers last at least six days, as long as his chest piece is the only thing needing maintenance.

He grits his teeth as the shrill pluck of lute comes to an end, patrons hurl abuse and chunks of food at the performer. Geralt takes a slow mouthful of his ale, suppressing a groan when he notices the bard is staring at him.

It isn’t awfully uncommon. Children, when they’re not sacred, tend to compare his eyes to a cats. Women and men have come up to him, booze and lust clouding their fear. 

He didn’t used to mind.

In fact, it made him feel kind of good, the way eyes would follow his leather-clad ass or the shade of red that would flush through their skin when Geralt winked or faux-growled in their direction. 

But Blaviken happened. 

Destiny, that cruel bitch, had a princess wander in his path. She was consumed by hurt and grief and threatened the lives of an entire town to seek her revenge. Geralt had pleaded, tried to placate her, spilling over stories where he was seen as a monster, how the world didn’t need his kind and the eyes of humanity could never be swayed.

She had a sparkle in her brown eyes and stroked his cheek. He fisted his fingers gently in her choppy brown hair and let her cover his body in her own. Her words were a cruel mock on the hinge of her jaw, caressing her cheek with _"you're beautiful."_ She had cut through them herself, a smooth line that Geralt stroked his thumb over with comfort and understanding. 

She murmured _“People call you a monster too. Why not kill them?”_ like some sick pillow talk. _Axii_ had no effect on her, only his silver blade made her bleed. She bled out in his arms. Her hand stroked over his cheek, reminding him of destiny, and that the ‘girl in the woods’ will be with him always.

The bard has wide, bright eyes, his shoulders relaxed in the ignorance that comes with being a child. He swipes a clay cup off a barmaid’s tray, holding it close to his body, jaw working with nerves as he approaches. Geralt could laugh, if not for the fact he’s about to be bothered. 

“I love the way you just… sit in the corner and brood.” The bard’s fingers fidget over the cup. Geralt fixes him with a measured glare, watching a nervous blush spread down his neck and into the cream of his chemise. 

“I’m here to drink alone.” Geralt keeps his fists balled on his thighs, finding an odd sense of patience with the boy standing awkwardly at his table. 

The bard wets his lips, leaning against one of the support beams. 

“Good. Yeah, good.” Geralt clenches his jaw, slightly satisfied when the bard shifts his weight, looking at his hands before speaking again. “But no one else hesitated to comment on the quality of my performance. Except…” 

The bard pushes off the beam and leans his hip against Geralt’s table. “For you. Come on, you don’t want to keep a man with… bread in his pants waiting.” 

Geralt sighs through his nose, raising a pointed eyebrow at the stale roll shoved into the front pocket of the bard's trousers. Undeterred, the bard slides on the bench opposite Geralt, setting his cup down.

“You must have some review for me! Three words or less.” The bard has pointy teeth that touch his bottom lip in a shy smile. The bard held his gaze, his nimble fingers tracing the rim of his cup.

Geralt breaths in slowly, picking the bard’s scent apart. He could smell day old sweat and grime on his skin. Cheap ale and nettle soap. Artificial peppermint and a sweet subtle lemongrass that Geralt vaguely recognises.

“They don’t exist.” He fights a smirk as the bard’s eyebrows furrow, his lips pursing. The bard slides his cup between his pale hands. There’s no fear in his scent. Curiosity, a hint of lust, so much openness and spirit Geralt forces himself to swallow.

“Wha- What don’t exist?” 

“The creatures in your song.” Geralt keeps his tone measured, watching the bard bite his lip.

“And how would you know?” The bard’s lips stretch into a grin, his eyes widening. Geralt sighs, rolling his eyes at the bard’s aborted motion to smack his palms on the table. Instead, he points an almost shy finger in Geralt’s direction.

“White hair… big, old loner… Two very… very scary looking swords. I know who you are.” 

Swallowing a growl, Geralt doesn’t bother draining his cup before getting to his feet. He rounds the table in long strides, barely brushing past the bard as he leaves.

“You’re the Witcher. Geralt of Rivia.” He doesn’t fight the tension that settles in his shoulders, watching the floor. The bard almost yells at the back of his head. “Called it!” 

Geralt really shouldn’t have stopped to hear out the ruddy man with the devil problem, a hundred ducats or fifty more. He really should have swung himself up on Roach and urged her to kick up dust in the bard’s stupid hopeful face.

Instead, Geralt thinks there must have been something in the ale. He can’t bring himself to do much more than lay a warning blow into the bard’s stomach and then step over him like a weed. 

A persistent, insistent weed that grows on the worn and trampled paths.

Geralt snarls through his teeth when the elves attack. He shouts and spits blood in a desperate attempt to keep the attention away from the bard. 

There must have been something in the ale, maybe poison, to cause the slight twitch in the corner of his lips when the bard’s fingers wrap around the neck of Filivandrel’s lute. 

There must have been something in the ale, maybe it’s the concussion, to cause the shiver down his spine when the bard’s hands slide over the curves of the lute, purring “ _she is a bit sexy, isn’t she?_ ”

There must have been something in the ale, maybe it’s the blood loss, to cause his breath to catch in something akin to admiration as the bard strums something tormenting and looks at him, honest and open, tongue curling around Elder speak and “ _respect doesn’t make history."_

There _must_ have been something in the ale because what other explanation is there for the dull burning in his chest when he hands the bard a tin of greasy homemade salve for the bruises that marr his bony ribs.

And like the weed he is, the bard somehow wriggles his way into Geralt’s bed that night and tucks himself against Geralt’s arm and has the audacity to fall asleep without more than a “ _goodnight, dear._ ”

Suddenly, Geralt has a friend. 

Geralt doesn’t know what to do with said friend, mind you. 

In some lights, the bard bit and snapped like Lambert, reckless and blindly putting himself in between Geralt and danger. He’ll smash a bottle on the edge of the bar without a moment’s consideration and challenge whatever unfortunate soul to _dare insult the White Wolf of Rivia._

Other moments, the bard plays with a dagger, the one he snuck out of Geralt’s belt, in a way that screams “Eskel.” He’ll flip it over his knuckles, pointing it at Geralt in an invitation. Geralt can’t find it in him to be annoyed at the wink or the pink smirk or the laugh that reminds him of wind chimes. He knows it’s an excuse to get his hands on the bard, knows he shouldn’t indulge so much, but there’s something so simple and fun about dropping the skinny troubadour on the floor.

The rest of the time, he is so _Jaskier_ that Geralt wants to throttle him. He talks or hums or clicks his damn fingers, constantly making noise. The bard will insist on plucking the strings of his lute until his fingers bleed, insist on singing till his throat is dry and scratchy. He’ll then roll himself in Geralt’s blanket or cloak and complain until the Witcher makes him sweet tea and wraps his hands in soft bandages. 

They don’t travel together all the time, just often enough that Geralt notices the sullen steady clop of Roach’s hooves in the dirt. They skirt around the weeds that sprout up in the dust.

Geralt stopped in Tretogor, tired and low on food, and almost choked on the acrid scent of fear in the air. He had been in Tretogor enough times to have made friends as well as enemies but the townsfolk glared at the floor, whispering met his stony silence instead of drowning in the proud pluck of lute. 

When the bard, literally, stumbled back onto the Path, somewhere and nowhere in Velen, Geralt caught his arm to stop him smacking his face into Roach’s shoulder. The bard had a tear in the sleeve of his silvery doublet and a breathless grin on his face.

Jaskier becomes skilled with a needle and thread, able to tell potions apart in near darkness, and knows exactly how tight to wrap a bandage around Geralt. He whines and whinges and demands until the Witcher lets him clean his wounds.

When Geralt gets himself paralysed from a sneaky basilisk bite, the bard is stripping him from his rain-soaked armour, lighting a fire with practised moves and huddles up close to him because “ _as your best friend-”_ “ _Roach is my best friend.” “As your best friend! It is my job to keep your dumb ass alive.”_

Jaskier feeds him dinner, brushes out his hair and ties it smoothly in a braid. His fingers pick at flowers in the clearing, teasing and pushy as Geralt’s muscles are still so weighed down by venom.

The bard laughs when Geralt bites out a “ _w_ _hat would I do without you_ ” when Jaskier helps him stand to take a piss. 

“It’s no coincidence, darling. Destiny is rarely so lazy.” Jaskier tucks the Witcher back into his pants, and then into his bedroll. 

He almost forgets his own disfigured words, the first time he has Jaskier under him. Jaskier looks up at him with a sweet smile in his eyes and he sucks a brutal kiss over where the words should start. His hand fists in the short hairs at the back of Jaskier’s neck and they roll against each other.

Jaskier sounds beautiful like this, bent in half between the blanket and Geralt’s chest. He leaves harsh marks over Geralt’s shoulders that he fits his fingernails into the next morning with a laugh and a wink. 

Geralt pretends he doesn’t see the blackened smatter of letters along the vein of Jaskier’s forearm, doesn’t even try to work out what they could say when the leather wrappings fall away from his skin. He focuses on the beauty spots and how many times he can sink his teeth into the meat of the bard’s shoulder before their song is over. 

He has an arm tucked behind his head, a bard tucked into his side and a blanket tucked under his hip. The way Jaskier is breathing over his collarbone makes the skin burn, even beneath the scars and sweat.

It almost… it almost feels like belonging. 

A bard, a prissy, bratty bard, spat from whatever wine and dine county. Himself, a numb, grouchy Witcher. Both of them fucked by Destiny with unreadable words. The warmth that Jaskier soaked him with almost felt like an apology.

He could almost belong with Jaskier’s hands chasing away dried blood and loneliness. He could get drunk on the way the days meld into one long stretch of time where the bard is humming along beside Roach.

He could almost feel complete with the way Jaskier holds his arm at Princess Pavetta’s betrothal feast, because they both know the Witcher isn’t there at the promise of “ _f_ _ood, women and wine._ ” They both know there's something unspoken and almost innocent in the forget-me-not blue of Jaskier’s eyes. 

It all goes to shit when he foolishly mocks the Law of Surprise. Maybe the fight with Calanthe’s men has him tired, the adrenaline from hooking the bard out of the jealous grip of drunken royals going to his head. Maybe he shouldn't have left Jaskier in the arms of some noblewoman or avoided any trace of him for several years afterwards, but destiny can bite him.

He could drown himself in the lake of disappointment and loneliness, anything to get some damn sleep. The bard greets him with an almost perfect smile. His voice is sweet and the tension in Geralt’s shoulders bleeds out as he speaks. 

The Witcher is soaked to mid-thigh and his hair is a mess, dark circles pressed under his eyes. Jaskier doesn’t notice, or maybe he disregards the feral look in Geralt’s golden eyes and he says “ _T_ _alk to me, Geralt”_ with such compassion the Witcher almost regrets not admitting they're friends.

Then there’s insults and yelling and Geralt actually snarls at the bard, who juts his chin out and bites back and then there’s a shattered clay amphora and some damn peace that Geralt can’t bask in because his bard is gasping and there's crimson between his teeth and dripping down his chin. 

Geralt smells fear in the bard’s skin and bile rises in his throat. Jaskier grabs at him and forces a smile and Geralt returns it in wild-eyed desperation and swears “ _you better not fucking die._ ”

Jaskier touches his cheek and chokes on his own blood.

There’s something sickening but so almost perfect about the way Jaskier clings to him. Geralt clenches his jaw and considers setting each tent ablaze until the medic spits out the solution. 

He strokes along Jaskier’s arms without thinking, rubbing soothingly at the wraps over his forearm, as Jaskier chokes on a breath that sounds like his name. The Witcher holds his head against his shoulder as they ride towards the mayor's house, close and tight in case the bard somehow slips from his grip.

And then he meets the mage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i quite like this chapter, hope you do too :)) 
> 
> let me know if i made any mistakes / i like feedback, hope u enjoyed this chap thank u for reading


	3. Heartbreak and Sorrow? I've got those in spades

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mature rating for language, non- graphic violence and non- explicit sex

She’s stunning.

Smooth, long limbs and rich, purple eyes that stop Geralt’s heart in his chest. There’s a haze covering the room, the air fizzes and burns the inside of his nose. Jaskier’s blood is on his hands but he feels strangely calm. 

The panic that had bubbled up under his ribs seemed to have been washed away when the woman stood, her dark, shimmery dress stroking her ankles. 

Geralt can’t smell the sour notes of fear in the bard’s scent anymore. His chest doesn’t tighten as he watches the mage circle him. He feels oddly relaxed as he’s stalked, like prey.

“I, uh…” He proffers the jug half heartedly at his side. “Brought you apple juice.” 

“And quite a bit more.” Her voice has Geralt sucking in a slow breath, the smell of lilac intoxicating.

She uses him and he can’t find the strength to mind.

There’s relief that blooms in his chest when Jaskier crashes against him, throwing his skinny arms around the Witcher’s neck.

“Geralt! Thank the Gods, I might live to see another day.” There’s a breathless grin on the bard’s lips as he squeezes Geralt tight and begins to lead him away from the house. There’s dried blood on his chemise and Geralt can’t help but reach out and stroke his cheek, like he did hours earlier when the bard laid pale and half dead in the care of the Mage. He had rewrapped Jaskier's forearm, covering the cramped, jumbled letters with shaking hands.

“Jaskier, you’re okay.” The words come out a warm rumble in his chest.

“Oh, I’m glad to hear you give a monkey’s about it!” Jaskier bites, with no real heat. He keeps looking back at Geralt, fingers circling around the Witcher’s wrist. Geralt lets him. He swallows the guilt of not being there when the bard woke. 

The walls of the mayor’s house crack as the Djinn slams its fists and kicks its feet. 

He’s back in the room with Yennefer, a mix of guilt and debt and want forcing him up the stairs to where she’s fighting against the Djinn. They scream at each other. Geralt saves her despite the cruel fizz of magic pushing him away.

The roof cracks and collapses, his body flung over hers as rubble starts to fall. 

They end up effortlessly entwined. Long, smooth arms wrap around him. Her skin doesn’t taste of sweat. She tastes of something intoxicating and Geralt would be a fool to not accept. Her skin is pure and clear, save for two narrow lines across her wrists. 

She sees the mess of scars over his chest and there’s something akin to pity in her eyes, but then she kisses him with understanding and he sinks, boneless, into her. 

Neither of them have a place they belong, so it makes sense as to why it doesn’t feel right to hold her in his arms. Not that it stops either of them.

Geralt couldn’t call it a comfort. Yennefer's cold fingers or sharp, smooth edges. She reminds him of porcelain. They fall into each other, unable to resist the pull of fizzy lilac and gooseberries. 

Geralt thinks this might be the love he’s so scarred against.

Jaskier’s face twists into a grimace whenever he sees lipstick at the hinge of Geralt’s jaw, or dipped in the hollow of his throat. His usual bright, sweet lemongrass turns bitter and Geralt can’t recognise the scent. 

Maybe he doesn’t really try.

Instead he pulls the bard to his side, lets him tangle his nimble fingers in Geralt’s hair. Jaskier hums wetly against the top of Geralt’s head. He’s warm and soft and familiar and Geralt falls asleep.

Jaskier’s scent keeps a sharp edge to it the whole time they trail after Borch and the dwarves. He lets the bard and the mage bite at each other, ignoring Yennefer’s bite of _“the crows feet are new_ ” because Jaskier’s skin is smooth and clear like usual. 

Jaskier hums to himself as they walk, composing, Geralt supposes, his fingers dancing over his lute. He only stops when Geralt pulls his hands away from the strings, smoothing his thumb over the bleeding calluses and Jaskier shakes a little but smiles gratefully. 

Geralt keeps a hold of his wrist, thick fingers wrapped just below the red cuff of his doublet. The bard can be clumsy, Geralt remembers, the way he ran from the hirikka, hands gripping Geralt’s sides as he skidded on the dusty path to hide behind the Witcher. 

Jaskier seems content with Geralt walking at his side, humming quietly and pleasantly. The bard frowns when Geralt follows after the mage, Geralt supposes he’s worried that they’ll lose the path up the mountain. 

He doesn’t beg, but it’s a near thing. Asking Yennefer to come with him, watching her steely gaze wrapped in soft furs. She agrees, reluctantly. He doesn’t hold her wrist or take her porcelain hand in his. They walk back to the group side by side and Geralt could be content with that.

Then the board breaks and Yennefer screams, Jaskier sobs and all Geralt can do is keep his arm outstretched, mouth open. He can’t find his voice, watching Borch fall with a kind smile, Téa nods solemnly as Véa’s arms wrap around her.

They disappear into the mist and Geralt can’t move until Yennefer’s cold fingers brush his shoulder. 

He can’t find the words to define the hollow pit in his stomach as he looks over the mountain side, Jaskier speaking softly, comfortingly beside him.

“ _Do what pleases you_ ” echoes in his head. 

The warmth of the bard that seeped into his side is quickly chased away when Yennefer presses herself to his chest. 

The grief Vesemir warned them of rinses through his chest when Yennefer pushes him down on the bed, her eyes flitting sympathetically to the grey mist of words barely visible. 

“I could get rid of them if you’d like. You could be free, like me.” Yennefer whispers, dragging her nails down his chest. She bites her lip as goosebumps rise in their wake. 

“Yen…” He grumbles, smoothing his hands up her sides. 

“Oh, come now. You can’t tell me it doesn’t hurt. I mean, Geralt, your best friend is a human. A human with another half. People like you and I, we- we don’t get other halves, Geralt.” Her purple eyes are wide and shining, her heartbeat steady and true.

He thinks of Jaskier’s soft smile, the supple leather strips that wind over his forearm, never fraying at the edges. He knows the bard couldn’t be his, but it doesn’t hurt too much for either of them to pretend.

It doesn’t hurt more than pretending whatever between himself and the Mage is real.

Geralt rolls Yennefer off him, fishing his shirt off the floor and leaves without a word.

He doesn’t make a sound as he slips behind the bard. Geralt strokes his hair back from his face, watching the way his eyes scrunch up at the touch. Geralt hums an apology and presses his face into the nape of his neck.

Jaskier searches for Geralt’s wrist, dragging it over his waist. The bard burrows into the warmth, lemongrass sweet and happy. There’s an ache in his chest but Geralt puts it down to the shine of the Mage’s eyes as he had walked away.

Geralt wakes with the sun.

He tucks the blanket tighter around Jaskier’s shoulders and ends up chasing the Mage up the side of the mountain. 

He bows his head when Téa and Véa raise their blades. They tell a story of an injured dragoness, the hunt for her and her unborn child, already a victim without even breathing air.

“She was protecting her baby.” Yennefer’s voice is soft and almost broken. Geralt listens hard, watching for movement. He smiles gently at Borch when he hears the fast heartbeat. The golden dragon raises his head, proud. 

“And died by it’s side.”

Geralt pretends he can’t see the angry tears in the warrior’s eyes. He tries to ignore the sympathetic waves of hurt that wrap Yennefer like a cloak. Fleetingly, he thinks about taking her in his arms for comfort, have her pointy elbows against his bicep, sharp chin in his shoulder.

“Looks like we get to fuck up the whole family!” The Reavers swagger in, lips curled in sneers. The moment of peace and respect is broken. “Slay that dragon!” 

The warrior sisters swing into gorgeous battle, arms corded with muscle and elegance. Geralt cuts down one mercenary with the butt of his sword.

“Boholt’s mine.” Yennefer demands, cold and claiming, purple fire dancing in her eyes. 

The Witcher can barely focus on the fight, not that he really needs to. The Reavers, however well trained, are uncoordinated and predictable. 

His attention stays caught up with the mage. The way she scoops up a sword and brandishes it like she was raised in a knights court. Her skirts spin and flow as she dodges and weaves, cleaving into a man’s abdomen. 

Geralt’s mouth is dry as he knocks away a slash, kicking out at one of the Reavers. More Reavers join the fray but they don’t seem to have an effect, as Véa rolls over Téa’s back and brings down three men. The women fight like it's second nature, as if they were one. 

He rushes towards Yennefer as she yells out commands. His mouth finds hers and he flings out a hand to the Reavers charging at them, hand outstretched. _Aard_ knocks them out of the cave, his energy surged on by Yennefer’s magic as she holds his face close to her, tongue fucking into his mouth. 

She pulls away with a smile and the Witcher can’t think of anything that will lessen the tight coil in his chest. 

She’s stunning, the dust on her face, the slight splash of blood on her dress, the way she plunges a dagger through Boholt’s throat. The way her eyes are cold and dark as they watch the Reaver choke and gurgle. 

Borch guides them to an even piece of ground with human hands, just behind the cave where the warriors watch over the egg. Geralt can hear the bard’s footsteps, watches him settle on a grassy verge.

“A child?” Yennefer prompts, uncharacteristically soft. The Witcher fights the urge to take Yennefer's hand in his.

“This treasure, this legacy must endure. There is no other reason to go on. Thank you for protecting it.” Borch’s grey eyes are honest and he smiles kindly at Geralt. The Witcher swallows, inclining his head. “And thank you, Yennefer of Vengerburg. I can see why Geralt didn’t want to lose you.”

“What does that mean?” Yennefer turns to look at Geralt. 

He tries to explain that the Djinn would have killed her and he would never have been able to belong somewhere. They’re real, the feelings that are swelling in his chest, urging him to stand after her.

They barb and bitch at each other and the air suddenly seems so much thinner as Yennefer throws his Child Surprise in his face when he _saved her life_. 

“That’s enough.” Borch speaks. Strong and smooth, Geralt can smell the salt in the air, on the Mage’s face as tears roll down her cheek when Borch shatters her only dream. Geralt’s chest aches as she turns away, her lip parted in a soundless sob. 

Geralt balls up his fists, curling his shaking fingers into his hands as Yennefer’s final words ring out, clear and sharp. “ _He already has_.”

She leaves.

She leaves the mountain, she leaves Geralt, she leaves a gaping hole in his chest and Geralt’s not sure he knows how to breathe anymore. 

He growls at Borch, trying to ignore his talk of legacies and destiny. 

Destiny is a fuckin bitch. 

It wasn’t Destiny that decided some kid with cheeks still chubby with baby fat would be shipped off to Wolf school, abused and broken till the remains could be smashed into a Witcher shape.

It wasn’t Destiny that sliced his skin and stripped him of any hope to ever be whole.

It wasn’t Destiny that has him blinking back the wetness in his eyes as all that’s missing from his life walks away.

Geralt swallows a sharp snarl as he hears Borch walk away, turning to look over the mountainside. Briefly, he considers pitching over and hoping the fall could shatter his bones into smaller fragments than whatever’s in his chest. 

“Phew! What a day. I imagine you’re probably-”

“Damn it, Jaskier!” Geralt spins on his heel, his lips stretching over his bared teeth. His eyes are shining and he can’t stop the pain crawling up his throat. “Why is it, whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it’s you who’s shovelling it?” 

Geralt stalks towards the bard, growling deep in his chest. Jaskier’s hands tighten around his lute case and his eyes widen in surprise.

“Well, that’s not fair…” He starts, voice soft and innocent. Geralt snarls, anger curling around his teeth.

“The Child Surprise, the Djinn- all of it! It’s no coincidence, Destiny is rarely so lazy.” The Witcher jabs his finger roughly into the creased red doublet over Jaskier’s chest. He should feel guilty about throwing Jaskier’s own words in his face but instead he smirks at the hurt that stabs through the bard’s eyes. “If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!” 

“Come, Geralt, there are other things that can give your life meaning.” Jaskier’s bottom lip is trembling, his eyes locked with Geralt’s. He fists his hand in Jaskier’s doublet, yanking them chest to chest.

“Like what? Like you? Like a Child Surprise destined for death and war? Like half a damn soul that I can never find the missing part to?” The Witcher snarls low, hot breath and spit on Jaskier’s skin. His hands are shaking in the crimson material, his knuckles white and he can feel the bite of his own nails through the doublet into his palms.

He lets go of the bard with a rough shove, turning his back and glaring out over the mountain. 

“Right. Uh…” Geralt can barely hear the bard over the blood roaring in his ears. His chest is heaving with the effort to keep his shoulders steady, breaths measured. 

“Right, then. I’ll… I’ll go get the rest of the story from the others.” Geralt squeezes his eyes shut. The air around him is bitter and fizzy and it's making Geralt’s head hurt. 

“See you around, Geralt.” 

The Witcher holds his breath until Jaskier’s uneven footsteps fade. He holds his breath until the air turns cold and empty around him. He holds his breath until his chest burns and his head starts going fuzzy. 

His knees give out and the ground barely catches him. The sun is setting over the mountain line, painting the sky with taunting streaks of lilac and violets and forget-me-not blues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay uhm i swear they get to be happy... just... not yet  
> temporary yen/geralt cus yall know it takes geralt a while to pull his head out of his ass


	4. Take my hand, let us waltz for the dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> alternative title; ode to cirilla  
> Rated mature for language, non- graphic violence and non- explicit sex

When Ciri falls into his arms, he feels full of something he didn’t even realise could exist. 

Her strong little arms wind around his back, her face pressing into the front of his shirt. The smell of juniper berries and damp earth surround him and after almost a month, the Witcher manages to suck a clean breath. He buries his face in her sweaty hair. 

_The girl in the woods._ He has her cradled in his arms, her little sniffles against his dirty cloak and there's ice on both of their boots. She smiles shakily as snow falls lazily around them. She sneezes when a snowflake lands on her nose and Geralt can't help but smile with her. 

He smiles for the first time in what feels like a decade.

Geralt can barely stand to be in a different room to her. He makes sure they stay in taverns when they can, feeds her as much as she can stand to eat and sits beside her bed, meditating or listening to her breathing.

She has nightmares some nights. Usually when they’re curled around the fire in a clearing. On those nights, Geralt doesn’t know what to do. He strokes his hands through her hair, lets her climb on his chest and bury her face in his neck and sob until exhaustion pulls her under. 

Geralt can’t stop the bile rising in his throat whenever he hums Ciri a melody. He can’t stop the ache in his chest whenever she begs him to let her thread daisies through his hair to match her own.

Geralt throws up behind a tree, barely pushing his hair out of his face, Ciri’s little hand patting his back after she tries sliding a yellow weed behind his ear. 

They winter at Kaer Morhen. 

Yennefer joins them for the last few months, watching the stone walls thaw. The mage offers to teach Ciri magic, to control the power she was born with, conceived by. They spend seven winters training and remembering how to live without fear. 

Ciri grows up beautifully. 

She’s smart, drinking in every piece of information Vesemir gives her. She’s feisty, quick, and strong. She doesn’t hesitate to twist Lambert’s arm behind his back and growl. She kicks Eskel under the table and throws a handaxe an inch above his head. 

She creates portals. She darts around Kaer Morhen, rolling through the narrow openings, tumbling off tabletops into one and appearing behind Geralt for long enough to jab him between the shoulder blades before springing backwards on her hands through another. 

Geralt loves her. 

Gods, Geralt loves her so much. The way she hugs him after sparring, reminding him that, yes okay she broke his nose _but no hard feelings, old man_. The way she talks, dry wit and drawling yet somehow sophisticating and frankly, devastating. 

Geralt loves the way she says _"d_ _ad_ ” without hesitation, and her hand fits in the bend of his elbow and she might press a kiss to his cheek and sneer her nose up at his stubble but she loves him too and Geralt breathes fresh air.

He doesn’t love Yennefer. 

Okay, that might be a lie he tells himself to get out of bed in the mornings and face her. He’s not in love with her, but he must have been, at least for a moment. They fit together better now they’re not fucking every time they’re in the same room. 

Knowing they’re friends, and yeah, okay _Destiny_ , maybe they were always intended to be friends, has helped the heavy ache that’s threaded around his ribs.

Ciri smiles at him every morning. She sometimes crawls in his bed at night and lays her head on his chest and he strokes her hair and hums. The notes stick in his throat and he sometimes wonders if he’ll choke. 

But his child sleeps. Yennefer has helped warn away any nightmares that threaten her and she’s warm and safe where Geralt can reach her. 

Geralt hates taking her on a hunt. 

He fucking hates it. He doesn’t care if she’s with him and Eskel, or anyone for that matter. The irrational father part of him wants to lock the gates of Kaer Morhen and keep her where not even the sun can hurt her.

Of course, the teenage attitude and logical approach finds Ciri mounted on her mare, Yennefer on her left and Geralt at her right. There’s a small gaggle of drowners just outside of Crow’s Perch and Geralt didn’t verbally disagree when Ciri told him to butt out of this one. 

The Witcher swings himself off Roach, just in case. He unsheathes his silver blade, just in case. 

Yennefer smacks his shoulder with a pointed violet glare as Ciri crouches low. Her sword shines in the high afternoon sun. She’s done this countless times before, Geralt knows this, but he can’t keep his breathing level when his damn daughter is dancing with a monster.

Ciri wipes sweat off her brow, tucking a stray lock of white hair behind her ear as she smiles at them. There’s a slight splatter of blood over her armour and drowner goo dripping off her blade and onto her boot. But the sun has brought out her freckles and Geralt can't help but smile back proudly. 

His skin starts burning as she walks towards them. 

He presses his palm to the left side of his chest, gasping out a ragged breath as the pain spreads deeper into his muscles, a stabbing pain in his lungs.

He scrabbles for the buckles of his chestplate, barely hearing Yennefer’s concern, her fingers helping him slip off the leather. He gets his shirt open, barely able to see through the searing pain. 

“Geralt!” Yennefer’s hand is tight on his shoulder, other hand wrapping around his wrist. She pulls his palm away from the mess of scars and breathes in sharply. 

“Geralt, your- your words.” She sounds almost distraught, letting go of his wrist to press her own palm against his chest. The coolness of her skin should feel soothing against the burning but Geralt isn’t sure he’ll feel anything but pain again.

“I can fix it. Geralt, listen to me, I can fix them.” Yennefer’s voice cuts through the pounding of blood in his head. It feels like his ribs are cracking and splintering, stabbing into his lungs and his heart and his stomach and he’s not sure if he can breath without something lodging in the back of his throat.

“Do it. Fuck- do it.” He grits out. His vision swims, falling to his knees. 

Ciri’s holding him upright, her worried voice filling his head with sweet promises of _‘it's okay’_ and _‘I’m here, dad, just hold on.’_ Geralt finds the energy to smile against her shoulder.

“You got me, cub.” He grunts, the throb of blood in his ears starts to drown out. There’s a soft pluck of lute, the fizz of magic and the smell of dandelion milk so faint Geralt can barely recognise it. 

He can hear Yennefer swear, her hand slapping against his face. 

“Geralt, stay awake. Ciri, shake him- Geralt! Don’t fall aslee-”

There’s a burst of pain and stars in his vision and he squeezes them shut, the sunlight burning him all over.

He snarls at the dark and it laughs at him. It sounds like wind chimes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chaps a little shorter, i wasnt gona have so much idk bonding time for geralt n ciri but i adore ciri so here we are  
> ik ik jask isn't technically mentioned in this chap but y'all know whats gona go down, even if our geralt doesnt
> 
> any and all feedback is appreciated, thank u for givin it a read :))


	5. Houses are not homes, we're not made of bricks and stones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated Mature for blood, language and non explicit sex

His head is in Ciri’s lap when he cracks an eye open with a low groan.

His vision is blurry and he can barely make out watery yellow eyes. He reaches an aching arm up to hold Ciri’s face and he tries to smile. 

“Hey, cub. You still got me?” 

He blinks. Her mouth is twisted into a growl and his cheek burns from the slap. 

“Don’t you dare do that again or I’ll stab you. See what hurts worse then.” She bites out, bending low to wrap her arms around him as well as she can. 

Geralt nods into her shoulder and breathes deeply. There’s a discomfort in his chest and the patch of skin on his chest burns. 

“Where’s Yen?” 

“Downstairs. You able to get up?” Ciri pulls back and smiles softly at him. 

“Hmm.” She helps him sit up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “How long was I out?”

“A few hours or so. I portalled us and our horses back home.” Ciri’s grin is smug as she holds the door open for him. 

“Wow, you’re gettin’ good, huh?” 

“I am good.” She preens, slipping his arm around her shoulders. 

They stagger down the stairs like a three legged race, except the prize is not falling over. Ciri’s shoulders are narrow under his heavy arm and Geralt manages to keep most of his weight off her as they take each step with care. 

Vesemir and Yennefer are sitting in twin armchairs in front of the fireplace in the common room, heads bent in conversation. 

“Welcome back to the land of the living.” Vesemir gestures to one of the sofas, smiling kindly once Geralt was seated. “When did I give you permission to die?” The old Witcher’s eyes are dark and his smile turns slightly thunderous. 

“Now, now.” Yennefer tuts, laying a placative hand on Vesemir’s forearm. “Easy with him. He’s in a delicate state.”

Geralt grumbles at her raised eyebrow, snapping at Ciri’s fingers when she coos, stroking over his cheek. 

“I died?” Geralt props his head up with one hand. 

“For a moment. Your soulbond broke through the defensive measures you had in place, the moment your soulmates heart stopped, yours did too.”

“I felt them die.” It wasn’t a question. Geralt leans back into the sofa, Ciri’s legs gently tucking over his. 

“You must have met them at some point in your life. But I have strong reason to believe that them not being human is what caused the barriers to break. Did you see anything?”

Geralt shakes his head.

“I- hmm. I heard music.” Geralt frowns. “I knew the song.” 

“Well, I should hope so.” Yennefer’s painted lips form a smirk. “While I was trying to figure out what was actually happening, I watched your soulmate die.” Yennefer pauses, watching Geralt’s mouth fall open. 

“Of course, they share Elven blood so it wasn’t too much of a strain to bring you both back.” Yennefer splays her fingers as if she’s checking her nails but Geralt can see in her tired eyes how difficult it has been. 

“Thanks.” Geralt nods his head, pressing his palm to where his words should be. “So what does it mean, now?” 

“Consider yourself ‘Born again’. Your soulmate dying allowed me to reach through the veil and untwist fate." She smirks, lacing her fingers together over her crossed knee. 

“So they’ll still have words? Will they still be black?”

“Yes and no. I’ve given you a chance. You can meet your soulmate and finally be whole, Geralt.” Yennefer leans forward, urging him to understand.

Geralt clenches his jaw. 

“I don’t need a soulmate.” The Witcher doesn’t need to even consider it. He squeezes his arm around Ciri tighter and presses a kiss to the top of her head. “I have everything I need.” 

“Dad…” Ciri wriggles back, holding his hand in both of hers. “You could be happy with that someone. I’m going to grow up soon, y’know?”

Geralt knows that she’s right. Really, he does, but Ciri is his everything, his whole world is sat beside him. 

“I can’t think of anything that will make me happier than seeing you grow into a life that makes you happy.” Geralt pulls her back to him, murmuring into the top of her head. 

“Geralt, consider it for a moment. What you thought we had, you could have for real.” Yennefer sounds almost pleading.

“Yen, I- I don’t need any of that.” The Witcher tells her honestly. “I have a _daughter_ , Yen. We have a daughter and I-I just don’t know what could make me happier.” 

“You have a chance to find out.” Vesemir says softly. 

“Wait, you’re okay with this? You- You-” Geralt couldn’t find the words to voice his disbelief, his anger. 

“I know.” Vesemir scrubs a weathered hand over his face. “We were always brought up to believe that Witchers were undeserving of belonging. That our hearts belonged to the Path and we should have no reason to stray from it. But, pup, I’ve seen the way you fight now, you’re careful and calculative. You have someone to come home to.”

“I know the Path is hard and worn. I fear without you pups, I would have perished decades ago by my own foolishness. Family is important to us, it’s integral.” 

Vesemir looks almost ashamed, his eyes fixed on his crossed ankles. Geralt lets his eyes close. He presses his forehead against the top of Ciri’s head, content to breathe in juniper berries and flowery soap. 

Geralt later pulls on a shirt, and doesn’t really take it off again. He keeps his words hidden away and learns to braid Ciri’s hair not too clumsily. Eskel shows him a better grapeshot bomb recipe. He drinks Lambert under the table five nights straight. The winter is content and familiar and Geralt feels satisfied.

Ciri goes missing.

For months, Geralt is fuelled by meditation and rage. 

Roach runs him over Velen, over Skellige, even fucking Novigrad. He doesn’t wash in literal weeks. His skin becomes so caked in blood and mud, his hair greasy and slick with sweat or blood or monster goo, he supposes. 

Geralt never thought he’d love deja vu so much, but the moment Ciri flies into him, her strong little arms wrap around his shoulders, he wants to fall to his knees and sob. 

He doesn’t let her go, keeps her arm over his shoulder as she bleeds. She rides on Roach, he jogs alongside, holding her hand. She barely manages a portal but it only lasts for the three seconds it takes them to run through it, for Ciri to slide into his arms. 

He shouts for Yennefer, he doesn’t know why he thinks she’ll hear, doesn’t even know where she is, as Geralt lays Ciri on one of the benches. She’s bleeding heavily from her shoulder and stomach and Geral’s hands are covered in her blood as he presses hard on the wounds. 

Yennefer appears beside him, her porcelain face stricken. 

“Geralt, get me a bottle of Kiss out of Roach’s pack.” Yennefer’s voice is steady and she knocks his hands off their child. 

“A bot- Yen, she’s not a Witcher. She can’t-”

“You’re so right. I was just going to tip the whole thing down her throat and watch her burn from the inside out. Geralt, get me that potion and let me handle the magic.” Yennefer snaps. 

Geralt clenches his jaw, smoothing back a strand of Ciri’s hair from her forehead. He rifles through the saddlebags, barely having time to murmur a “ _good girl, Roachie_ ” before rushing back to Yennefer, passing the bottle. 

She’s stunning, her hands magically unstained by the blood, her lips curling around Elder chant. The mage doesn’t look up as Geralt crouches beside them.

Geralt slides his hand under Ciri’s head. There’s flecks of blood on her lips and her eyes roll half open. 

“Dad?” Ciri smiles through red teeth.

“Hey, cub. I’ve got you.” Geralt presses a kiss to her forehead, cold dread settling in his stomach when she coughs up a blood stained giggle. 

“Dad?“ She shivers in his arms.

“It’s okay, I’ve got you.” Geralt leans over her, cradling her head to his chest. There’s sweat on Yennefer’s brow. The soft dark hairs curling around her ears are stuck to her cheeks. Her hands are shaking, dim light coating her palms where they’re pressed to the gaping wounds on Ciri’s body. “Cub, I’ve got you.” 

Ciri smiles against Geralt’s shoulder, the leather digging into her cheek. 

“Geralt, give me your hand.” Yennefer nods towards where her own is pressed over Ciri’s stomach. He slips his hand under hers, her delicate fingers curling between his and pushes it tight to Ciri’s skin.

The Witcher could throw up. The feel of the torn edges of skin under his palm, the faint throb of her pulse, the blood under his nails. He can feel Yennefer slowly pull energy from him.

“You can take more. Yen, fix her.” Geralt grunts, holding Ciri tighter to him as she shakes. 

“I can’t take more than your stamina can replace.” Yennefer’s strong, commanding voice has taken on a tremor. 

“Just do it!” He catches her eye, the desperate fear of loss Geralt never thought he’d see in her. “Yen, she’s our daughter. Do it.” 

“So this is parenthood, huh?” The Mage looks close to tears, the glow on her hands brightening. “Don’t pass out on us.” 

Geralt grunts as the pull becomes stronger. He swears under his breath, pressing his nose to Ciri’s sweaty hair and breathing deeply. 

He kneels at his daughter’s side until the sun is hanging low in the sky and a chill sets in around them. 

Yennefer sits back on her heels, wiping her forehead with the black sleeve of her dress. Geralt stares at her through bleary eyes. She has mascara running down her cheeks and her lipstick has faded where her lip was clamped between her teeth. 

“Is…” Geralt’s tongue feels too big in his mouth, his eyes half closed. “Is she…?” 

Yennefer’s hands slowly stop glowing. They’re clean and pale. Geralt’s hand slides off Ciri’s stomach, slick with blood. 

“Get her somewhere warm.” Geralt nods, slipping his bloodied arm under Ciri’s knees and lifting her gently. He sticks his elbow out slightly, jerking his head to the side.

“C’mon, Yen.” The Mage supports herself with a hand in the crook of Geralt’s elbow as they get to their feet. She leans heavily on him as they make their way up to the wide double doors of the Keep, Yennefer’s free hand curling around Ciri’s knee.

Geralt eases Ciri onto his bed, guiding Yennefer down beside her. 

“Yen, you-”

“Quiet, Geralt. We need to rest.” Yennefer holds up a lazy hand, but she smiles at him with a wink. 

The Witcher lets a grin crack his face with a huff, gingerly peeling the bloodied shirt off of Ciri, replacing it with a baggy black one from his wardrobe. He moves slowly through the Keep, fetching a bowl of water and a cloth, wiping down her stomach and chest, softly washing the blood from her chin and the corner of her mouth, the grime on her sweatline. 

Pressing a kiss to her forehead, Geralt brushes her hair back, twirling his index finger around one blonde lock with a sad smile. 

“I’ll be right back, cub. I’ve got you. Are you listening to me?” He murmurs into her hairline, eyes betrayingly damp. “You better be. I’ve gotcha, okay?” Geralt drops another kiss to the top of her head before pressing one to Yennefer’s forehead. 

He tries to say anything that sounds like “thank you” but all he manages is a ragged inhale against her sweaty dark hair. 

Yennefer doesn’t even crack an eye open, just waves him off, taking Ciri’s hand in her own.

The Witcher nods, clenching his jaw. He washes his hands, scrubbing the cloth down his forearms and strips off his own soaked shirt and cleans away the smears of blood until the water in the basin is red and making him feel sick. 

Geralt has been training since he was fourteen, when the trial swallowed him up and spat him out in a body he didn’t belong in. 

He had slain basilisks and wyverns and griffins and mankind so horrifying even werewolves look humble. He had survived years as a mutant, blackened eyes when they weren’t fiendishly golden. 

He had survived almost a century being hated and cursed, he had seen history be made with just a bard and a lute, changing entire villages for the better. He had experienced regret and something akin to heartbreak. He had been lonely for almost an eternity until some snarky smart bard and a misunderstood power- hungry Mage had _made him feel_. 

He didn’t know exactly how love felt then, he was so ignorant and blind and scared, nothing prepared him for Ciri. for the love and the fear so intense it's like hurling down a mountainside whenever she leaves his sight.

If love could be anything as close to what the skilled mage made him feel, then maybe it’s worth it.

If love will be anything as close to what that clever- tongued bard made him feel, then maybe it’s worth it.

Geralt leans heavily on the chest of drawers. He glances around the room, before his gaze rests on his sheathed silver sword hanging by his belt on the bedpost.

He wraps a large, scarred, scared hand around the hilt, pulling it free from the scabbard. 

The setting sun filters a orange light into the room, bouncing off the sharp silver. Geralt clenches his jaw. He glances up the bed, where his daughter is laying, face pressed into Geralt’s pillow, one hand scrunched in his blanket and the other laced in Yennefer’s. 

He swallows, bobbing the sword lightly in his hand.

He can’t think of it as a second chance, surely. He never even knew he met them before. This is more of a beginning. An opportunity. Geralt takes a measured breath, brow furrowed as he bounces the sword. 

A ‘Born again’ opportunity. 

The Witcher sighs a laugh. He tilts the sword up, catching sight of the jagged clawed scar on his sternum. He watches it shake, the faint grey words fuzzy as he focuses on the dark scrape underneath his left pec. 

Geralt forces a steady breath out, balancing the sword to read the cramped cursive. 

His mouth goes dry. Geralt blinks away the slight moisture forming in the corner of his eyes. He blames parenthood for making him a little soft around the edges. He blames his old newly formed heart for the drop and rise of his stomach. 

He's seen these letters, this writing before. On scraps of parchment. In notebooks. These words spoken in a faceless, piss smelling tavern in Posada.

He runs a finger over the curl of an _I_ , scratches his nail underneath an _l_ , an _s_ , a _b_. He presses his palm over the words and tips his head back, as if that would stop the slow roll of disbelief as it leaves a wet trickle down his cheeks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woo almost at the ennnnddd are we excited??? i am!!  
> i was considering having Ciri not make it ngl but i love her so much and i rewrote the final chapter like 4 times so she sorta needs to stay alive for me  
> i gave jask elven blood on an impulse but lemme tell u it works out for me n my shitty writing  
> anyways hope you enjoyed this chap, thank you so much for reading, any feedback or just general comments is appreciated :)))


	6. Home is you and me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mature rating for blood, non-graphic violence and non explicit sex

Geralt and Destiny aren’t friends.

He checks his words in the gleam of a sword or a dagger, or whatever he has near him whenever he can, in case one day they disappear off his skin. 

The Witcher doesn’t get a chance to swing himself up on Roach and scour every damn tavern in Skellige, every backwater shithole in Velen, every grand court in Novigrad and all the places in between. 

There’s a war. 

The fear Geralt felt when the Wild Hunt first took Ciri for her Elder Blood becomes second, sickening nature. 

The Witchers search for allies, preparing the walls of Kaer Morhen for another, final attack.

It near broke Geralt’s heart to force Ciri to stay in the Keep, out of the bastard hands of the Wild Hunt. 

It didn’t work, his child was full of fire and courage and she rescued Eskel from a fatal blow, watched as Yennefer’s protective barrier dropped and Geralt can feel her heart break when Vesemir falls limply to the ground. 

She screams. 

It’s crippling and paralysing and Wild Hunt warriors crumble as they’re slaughtered. The remainder, the General and the King, too overwhelmed by magic are forced to retreat empty handed. 

They go after the survivors.

Geralt can’t remember how many times he almost dies. He swears at Destiny every time he strikes back with new-found energy, as if the damn universe isn’t done with him yet. 

He gasps as he breaches the surface of the icy ocean, the General of the Wild Hunt dying in the depths. He can still feel where their clutching, dragging grip was on his ankle. He drags himself to a Skellige skip, burning on the frozen sea.

He drags himself to shore, muscles gasping for oxygen, the need to move burning deep in his bones because _Ciri isn’t safe_. 

Geralt doesn’t know where he is, but he staggers and stumbles into a village. He’s somewhere on Skellige, a small stocky tavern has the rain-faded red flag hung up on the door. The Witcher leans on a fencepost, the dawn painting the rundown houses in a soft glow.

Geralt fumbles through his belt pouch, fingers shaking around the neck of a green bottle. He swallows down a third of thunderbolt, feeling blood slowly leak back into his frozen hands almost immediately. He sinks onto a barrel in the bend of the fence, shadows barely covering his chest as the sun starts it’s lazy climb. 

He needs a boat. The General was too slow in his teleporting, undoubtedly missing the ship where the King of the Wild Hunt is residing. Where Ciri might be.

Geralt and Destiny aren’t friends. His child is miles away and he can feel every meter in the strain of his breath as he gasps for air.

He barely hears the door of the tavern being flung open as he waits for the large cut in his leg to stitch itself together. Geralt glances over to see who’s swinging on the tavern door, a skinny man slightly unsteady on his feet, a dark instrument case over his shoulder.

There’s blood pumping loud in his ears as the bard’s eyes catch his.

The Witcher doesn’t know if he’s hearing his own pulse or someone else’s as the bard calls back inside the tavern before his shoulder’s square underneath the silvery stitch of his doublet. 

Geralt holds the forget-me-not blue gaze with his own blackened eyes as the bard marches up to him, poking a finger into his chest and lip curled in a snarl that doesn’t suit his face. He smells faintly of erveluce.

“I _love_ how you just... sit in the corner and _brood_.” The bard’s face is more weathered than Geralt remembers, when Geralt allows himself to remember. His teeth are pointy and sharp. His lips are pinker. His eyes are bigger. 

Geralt reaches up, shakily, slowly, until his palm is pressing gently against the bard’s cheek. The left side of his chest aches, a sharp pain skating across his skin. There’s a scar over the bridge of his nose, small, thin and silvery but it hurts more than the burning as his words blacken on his chest.

“Hey, little one.” Geralt’s voice can’t seem to go above a whisper. He can see the moment Jaskier’s skin starts to sting, the wideness in his blue eyes and the way his knees buckle. “What’re you doing out here? It isn’t safe.”  
  


The Witcher catches him by the elbows, his head falling against Geralt’s shoulder.

Geralt doesn’t have time to breathe against the crook of Jaskier’s neck, he barely has time to pull himself to his feet and plaster the bard against the nearest building, pushing to cover his slender frame with his own body.

“Oi-” Geralt presses a hand over Jaskier’s mouth as the drum of hooves gets loud enough for the bard to hear.

“It isn’t _safe_.” Geralt growls against the shell of Jaskier’s ear. 

He can hear four horses, can smell the rancid cloud of salty, frozen blood that circles the Wild Hunt. He can hear the chitter of one of the soldiers, the unsheathing of a sharp blade. 

“Oh, darling.” Jaskier laughs, an almost cruel note in his voice. “I’ve grown up a hell of a lot since you left.” His nails bite into the skin of Geralt’s wrist as he frees his lute from the case with his other hand, wedging it between them. “ _Igni_ , if you will.” 

The Witcher forms the sign with a wide-eyed frown. A spark jumps in his palm, a soft glowing light, Jaskier holding his wrist over it. A thick leather bracelet escapes the cuff of his doublet, an iron pendant dipping into the flames. 

“You take care of the rest of them.” Jaskier hums, winking carelessly as Geralt steps away from him, the flame dying out. Geralt draws his silver sword, barely able to focus passed the way the iron pendant, red hot and swinging, grazes the bard’s pale skin.

One of the Wild Hunt screams. 

Geralt spins on his heel, teeth bared as he scans the village. The Wild Hunt are maybe 20ft away from him, weapons drawn. One of them slides off their horse, screaming, a bloodcurdling, desperate cry, echoing in the metal helmet as it starts to glow. 

Geralt only has a moment to smirk, knowing it’s mirrored by the humming bard behind him, as the helmet melts, red hot and moulding over the Wild Hunt’s face, smothering the screams. 

Then the Wild Hunt are on him. 

Only one soldier bothers to dismount, the others charging at him with a low slash of their blades. _Aard_ knocks the legs out from the horses easily, sending the soldiers tumbling down to his level. He slips his sword between the ribs of one of them, the body barely twitching when he yanks the blade free and ducks under a swing, dodging the sharp arch of the longsword. 

He can scarcely make out the dull glow of the soldier's eyes under his mask, but he can see the gleeful curl of lip as a slash catches Geralt across the meat of his thigh. 

Geralt snarls as he hears the peppy strum of lute. 

He recognises the tune but forces the thought away as he sinks his sword into the stomach of the soldier. 

The remaining Wild Hunt soldier is holding his sword shakily, eyes glazed over under their helmet. Geralt swings, catching them in the shoulder as the soldier barely manages to block. Geralt grunts as the soldier seems to manage to snap out of the haze they were in, kicking out at Geralt’s injured leg, the flat of their sword forcing Geralt back. 

The Witcher lunges again, his thigh aching as blood sluggishly runs down his leg. The soldier is quick to block his first strike, but staggers when Geralt knocks his helmet off with his second swing. 

As the soldier falls, their eyes roll back in his head, the whites becoming cloudy as they screams, hand dropping his sword as he scrubs at his eyes. Geralt grabs them by the front of the chest piece, sword tight against the leathery skin of their neck.

“Where is the King heading?” He spits out the title, the blade biting into the soldier’s throat. The soldier’s yell turns into a manic laugh, their teeth jagged and yellow.

“You won’t find them in time. Your child will die! Her blood will freeze and we will rule.” Geralt presses harder until the soldier’s laugh turns into screams.

“Geralt.” There’s a hand on his shoulder. He looks up at the bard, the bright blue in his eyes slightly cloudy. “They’re off the coast, a little north on the Frozen Sea. They’re working on a portal back.” 

“Fuck.” Geralt clenches his jaw, slitting the soldiers throat. “I need a boat.”

“Uhm, actually- Geralt!” Jaskier catches his arm as he gets to his feet. “You need to apologise and ask for my help, and thank me for what I’ve done already.” His cheeks are flushed but his eyes are defiant, his fingertips bleeding as he grabs Geralt’ chin.

Forced to meet his eyes, Geralt sucks on his teeth. He reaches for a fistful of creamy chemise, pulling Jaskier close, pressing a dry kiss to his cheek. 

“The Wild Hunt will kill Ciri. We need to go.” 

“Oh. Oh, right. Okay, sure, yes. A boat did you say?” Jaskier blinks. Geralt’s skin itches where Jaskier’s blood is smeared. “A little way east of here, come on.” 

He doesn’t let go of Geralt’s arm, and the warmth of his palm feels a little like forgiveness. 

Geralt explains roughly about the Wild Hunt, their search for Elder blood to create an heir to rule after the King. Jaskier snorts when Geralt tells him about the search for Ciri, pulling his chemise free from where it’s tucked into his pants to reveal deep, white, smooth scars over his abdomen, raising the skin. 

“You know, I had a lovely cabaret up in Novigrad. A beautiful place really, now run by a beautiful woman.” Jaskier smiles a little dreamily, a little sickly. “Ciri found me one summer, she was on a hunt- a striga? I think, anyway. The Hunt paid me a visit a few years after. Rather slow lot, they are.” 

Jaskier laughs, pulling Geralt’s arm over his shoulders. He’s broader than he looks underneath his doublet. 

“Do you still travel?” Geralt murmurs, giving in to the urge to press his face into Jaskier’s hair. He smells of sweat and the metallic ring of blood and lemongrass. 

“Of course I do.”

“By yourself?” Geralt isn’t sure why he asks. He’s not even sure he cares but the skin on the left side of his chest itches and it’s more distracting than the wound in his thigh. 

“Yes. I can protect myself just fine. Did you know I died? I wrote a bloody great ballad about the day, here I’ll sing it for you-”

“Jask, I know. I- I did too.” Geralt grumbles as they hike over a hill. He spots a small, sturdy looking boat, half on the rocks. “You, uh, kinda took me down with you.”

“Oh?” Jaskier huffs a confused laugh. “Well, you deserved it, I’m sure.” He ducks out from under Geralt’s arm to untie the rope of the boat. “Go on, jump in.”

The Witcher settles on the helm, stretching so Jaskier can clasp his arm and pull himself in as well. The bard is clumsy as he tumbles at Geralt’s feet but he can’t help but return Jaskier’s grin.

Jaskier strums idly at his lute as they sail. He keeps shooting looks at Geralt, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. 

“Got something to say?” Geralt raises an eyebrow, extending his uninjured leg to poke Jaskier’s boot with his own. 

“Uh.” Jaskier’s smile flits nervously over his lips. “You don’t wana ask about the whole magic thing?” 

The Witcher shrugs. Jaskier fiddles with the strings of his lute, Filivandrel’s lute, Geralt realises with a surprised smile. 

“Do you want to tell me?”

“Do you want to apologise? Because I can wait, I’m totally patient. Except, I really do feel like I can help with the Hunt, so… Up to you.” The set in Jaskier’s shoulders tells him it really isn’t.

“I’m sorry, Jask. I never wanted to hurt you and I should have looked for you.” Geralt tries for a smile, but his lip threatens to tremor. “I- I’ll make it up to you, if you’ll allow me.” 

Jaskier’s mouth falls open, a surprised furrow in his brow. 

“I think we can manage that, darling.” Geralt feels his eyes soften as Jaskier knocks his foot against his. “Woah, hey! That boat is on fire.”

“Fuck.” Geralt recognises the demonic outline of the _Naglfar_ where it’s crashed against the side of a Skellige ship. He can just make out small, shadowed figures on the deck. “We need to-” 

“Give me your hand.” Jaskier grins. “Come on,” He pulls Geralt into his space, stepping so close their noses bump. “Close your eyes and trust me, darling.” 

Geralt squeezes Jaskier’s hand as wind whips around them. He doesn’t know they’ve moved until he feels the floor become much sturdier than their little boat. His stomach lurches as Jaskier steadies him, his knees buckling. 

Jaskier’s hand is on his cheek, brushing back a strand of hair. 

“Go, it’s okay. We’ve got this.” Geralt presses his lips to the palm of Jaskier’s hand and glances around.

The King is fighting a weakened Crach an Craite, Geralt’s legs weak and sluggish as he starts forward, too slow to raise his sword and stop the final attack. He feels a rush of energy, fury, vengeance- he doesn’t know what but the battle with the King is gruelling. 

The bard plucks at his lute in the background, Geralt can barely hear the chords as he rolls away from a cleaving blow. 

When it’s finally over, Geralt kneeling over the King’s quickly cooling form, pulling his blade out of his abdomen, he hears the familiar _woosh_ of Ciri’s portal. She’s pale and shaking but drops to her knees over the prone form of Crach an Craite, her grandfather, and they bow their heads as she lets out a sniffle. 

Geralt plucks the mask off the King, giving in to the urge to spit blood at the bastard who tried to take his child. 

He wraps an arm around Ciri, letting her warm her hands on his sides. Jaskier smiles widely, all proud teeth, tongue flicking over his lips as he searches the King’s corpse, making a small _‘ah-ha’_ when he pulls out a leather pouch.

“Hello, lovely!” Jaskier winks, tipping the pouch out over his palm to count the contents.

“Fancy seeing you here. Keeping well? How’s Priscilla?” Ciri returns his grin weakly.

“Come on, Cub. I’ve got you.” Geralt breathes against the top of Ciri’s head when Jaskier settles a warm hand on the back of the Witcher’s neck. 

Geralt couldn’t bring himself to stagger further than the few steps into Ciri’s portal, collapsing on the freshly stained court of Kaer Morhen. 

Jaskier lets him fall to the floor, leaves him kneeling there with Ciri cradled in his lap, knees soaking up the not-quite-dried blood of the fallen soldiers of the Wild Hunt. He can hear the bard humming absentmindedly, watches as he strokes his fingers through the scarce flowerbeds. 

“Come now, dearheart. Let’s get you both inside.” Jaskier’s smile is soft and warm as he slips an arm around Geralt’s waist and walks them inside the Keep. 

Geralt thinks he should mind more. The way Jaskier fits so easily into Winter at Kaer Morhen. 

Jaskier doesn’t hesitate to help with potions, works alongside the Witcher’s with a grin. He sits in on Ciri’s lessons with Vesemir and Yennefer. He gets drunk with Eskel and Lambert, recounts _The_ _Great Tragedy of Jaskier- Geralt, you have to do the jazz hands or it loses pizzaz!_ And tells them of the grimy details, how the Wild Hunt kept the bard alive with a mage’s magic, how he was somehow conscious as they gutted him cleanly, painfully.

He tells them of the elves he saw when Yennefer dragged him back through the veil, back off the brink of death. How he could feel everything fall into place when he next awoke, gasping and panting and somehow so _alive._

The elven blood. The magic. The _words._ Gods, Jaskier spent hours running his fingers over the grey letters. How Destiny isn't finished with this dumb, heart-filled bard from Lettenhove.

He plays his lute, that familiar tune which haunts Geralt at the back of his mind for as long as he can remember. 

“It’s a Song of Rest,” Jaskier had told him when he finally got the courage to ask. “Don’t you feel it, dearheart?” And the odd thing is, Geralt did. He felt the warmth that the lute plucks deep in his chest.

He felt his tongue curl over his teeth when he smooths his thumb over Jaskier’s bold, clear, blackened words; _“Hey, little one.”_

Jaskier fits into the curve of Geralt’s body, like he always had. His head rests on the Witcher’s chest, his tongue pokes out to lick over his own curling words _“I love...”_ and he whispers _“I do, Geralt, I do, I love you.”_

Jaskier teaches Ciri how to make flower crowns with winter flowers, telling her _the stems might be tougher but they look so pretty_. Geralt holds back a flinch when the bard pushes a crown of yellow weeds into her hands, jerking his head in Geralt’s direction. Ciri lays it on his bowed head with a sweet laugh. 

Geralt rolls his eyes and pushes lightly at her shoulder. She pushes him back. He pushes her a little harder when she smirks. She flits behind him, before he can reel around after her, she jabs sharp in between his shoulder blades and darts off.

“This is your fault.” Geralt points an accusing finger at the giggling bard. “She wasn’t this much trouble before you came along.” 

“Darling, we both know that’s not true.” Jaskier closes the distance between them, his arms winding around Geralt’s neck. 

“Hmm. I suppose we do.” His big hands circle Jaskier’s waist and pulls him tight to his chest. 

Jaskier laughs in his arms, throwing a “ _possessive wolf_ ” into the small space between them. He laughs when Geralt licks a broad stripe up the column of his throat, nipping sharply in the hollow of his jaw, under his chin. 

Geralt feels complete and whole and he can’t think of anywhere in the world as perfect as the dip of Jaskier’s collarbone, the constellation of freckles on his cheeks or the forget-me-not blue promise of his eyes that Geralt’s drowning in.

Yeah, Geralt and Destiny aren't friends but Jaskier smells of summer and moonlight and lemongrass and _soul._

Jaskier laughs and it sounds like wind chimes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that's all they wrote ;))  
> thank you so much to everyone who's left kudos and comments, they mean the world to me!  
> catch you on the next fic ;)))

**Author's Note:**

> idk how to link but my tumblr: bloodyjacksparrow  
> insta: eatlead_dieearly


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